


All My Broken Pieces (You Found Them, Glued Them, Made Them Whole)

by josywbu



Category: Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: And lots of love, Family, Friendship, Gen, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Referenced - Freeform, Tony Stark Gets a Hug, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Touch, tony's ambivalent relationship with touch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-18 12:57:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18250304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/josywbu/pseuds/josywbu
Summary: Tony had always craved touch.It was always the touch of a person he trusted that kept him from falling apart any further. It was the touch that was his crutch when he couldn’t stand back up on his own. Touch was the glue that held all of his broken pieces together even when he himself had given up on repairing the damage because it seemed futile.





	All My Broken Pieces (You Found Them, Glued Them, Made Them Whole)

**Author's Note:**

> I promise I'll reply to all your kind comments sitting in my inbox this week! I've got my last exam on Thursday and then this crazy semester will finally be over. Meanwhile have this. Something I've worked on for a few months, usually when I felt pretty shitty and finished today because my brain cannot do with any more pharmacology. I hope you enjoy this, I really loved writing it. It's my personal head canon that Tony used to be pretty touch starved which is just one of the worst things about going away to university, tbh. Much love <3

Tony had always craved touch.

When he was a toddler, the only way for Maria and Jarvis to calm him down or get him to sleep was always through touch.

Maria would hug him and sing him a lullaby, lips so close to his ear that he felt her warm breath on his skin and only then, when he was certain that his mother was there with him, would he relent and close his eyes, falling asleep almost immediately.

Jarvis would calm the body shaking sobs and soul splitting screams he tried to bury in his pillow by running a warm hand up and down his spine, whispering soothing words that Tony never really picked up on.

It was always the touch of a person he trusted that kept him from falling apart any further. It was the touch that was his crutch when he couldn’t stand back up on his own. Touch was the glue that held all of his broken pieces together even when he himself had given up on repairing the damage because it seemed futile.

* * *

 

When he meets Rhodey he has long since come to accept that needing someone else’s touch is a weakness. A weakness that he can’t afford if he wants to make his father proud.

_Stark men are made of iron._

It’s etched into his heart, the incision aching with every beat, and he feels his father’s word in his lungs with every breath he takes. Like acid the words dissolve him from the inside, battling the very core of who he is – _was_.

He’s 15 and he’s by far the youngest student on the MIT campus.

Everything and _everyone_ around him feels so much bigger than he is, than what he feels like, but he’s used to feeling small and worthless so he squares his shoulders and he puts on the persona that has gotten him through his one dreadful year of high school. He’s smart, he’s sassy and he doesn’t mince his words. He lets everyone know exactly who he is.

It doesn’t take him more than two weeks to troop together a group of people who _love_ hanging out with Howard Stark’s son. (It just happens to be Tony, he knows that.)

It takes him three parties to get his reputation as a player. (Because sex, he was taught, is the only physical connection that is about control not weakness and he can’t shut down the last pathetic part of him that still craves human contact.)

 

James Rhodes is not a player. He shows up to some parties, he socializes easily and is an all-around all-liked person. He speaks his mind but he does so in a polite way, inviting discussion and discourse as long as it’s on-topic und respectful. He doesn’t let frustration and anger cloud his judgement. He’s resilient in his work and his intelligence is quiet and steady.

In short, he’s everything Tony is not and normally their paths would never have crossed.

Maybe it’s fate that decides that they should meet. Maybe it’s just dumb luck. Whatever it is, Tony is grateful they do.

When they do, Tony is running on four hours of sleep in just as many days and he’s shaking like a leaf. His hands are trying to connect the last few wires on his robot but they’re too jittery to perform the delicate action and he ends up electrocuting himself. Just for a moment, though, and no one else in the big lab seems to notice so he just keeps going like he always does.

That is until a heavy hand settles on his shoulder, making him flinch so hard he drops both the unfinished robot and his tools. Every little fiber in him is screaming alarm. Sudden touches can only ever mean pain and he is too tired to deal with any more of that right now, too hollow to put up his mask.

Somehow he manages to keep himself from yelping but when he turns and his eyes land on the other boy who’s standing way too close for comfort, his fear morphs into anger. (Anger, Howard taught him, demands respect and installs fear in his opponent.)

“What the actual fuck?” he exclaims. What started as a deep manly curse ends in a high-pitched screech, informing the other kid of just how young he actually is. Tony fucking hates puberty.

“Sorry.” The other boy backs up immediately, brown eyes open and free of any trace of malice.

It doesn’t mean it isn’t there, just means he hides it well, Tony thinks.

“I didn’t mean to startle you. Just wanted to let you know that they’re closing up the labs in about twenty minutes.”

Tony nods and he thinks, hopes, that this is it. That the other boy just came to tell him that and that he is going to leave now. But these eyes – they stare right into his soul and it makes him feel lacking because he knows what they’ll find, he knows what everyone has always found so far. No one has stayed after all.

“What are you working on?” the older boy asks. He seems truly interested and it’s confusing Tony. No one is ever interested in what he’s doing. Not really anyway.

He frowns. “What? So you can make fun of me?” And damn it if this doesn’t sound absolutely pathetic.

“No, of course not.” The boy seems honestly insulted at the accusation. (Good, maybe he’ll leave before he can hurt him.) “It just looks really cool. Is that a robot?”

Tony shrugs, giving up on trying to get him to leave in favor of trying to finish his work before the lab closes. “He’s supposed to be one.” For some reason the extra set of eyes makes him move more carefully and, without any more incidents, he manages to finish connecting all the wires.

He waits. Something is supposed to happen. Or has he messed this up, too? Is he really not capable of doing anything right at all?

Suddenly the machine makes a sad _beep-boop_ , moving its claw once, twice, three times before it short circuits and dies down with a gurgling noise.

Pathetic.

And Tony? He’s this close to a mental breakdown and he knows he can’t succumb to it here because no one is allowed to see Howard Stark’s son cry. Least of all an older guy from MIT, smart and on the lower range of popular, who’s going to tell everyone about how much of a scalawag he is.

_Stark men are made of iron._

But Tony isn’t.

His body is shaking with sleep-deprivation, too much caffeine and shame when he picks up the useless robot that he has already internally labeled Dum-E. He hoped that Dum-E would show his father that even dummies like him can be useful sometimes but it seems like his old man was right. Like he always is. Tony truly is good for nothing.

A dummy who builds dummies who aren’t good for anything either.

“That was pretty impressive,” the other boy interrupts his inner monologue and Tony fails to find the sarcasm in his voice but maybe he just can’t even read people anymore, so he glares at him. He doesn’t seem to care about it too much, though, and reaches out to inspect the inner workings of the robot with gentle, steady hands.

His arm is resting lightly against Tony’s and he doesn’t dare to move, mind hyper-focused on the contact. The stranger is warm and soft and real and Tony’s heart aches suddenly with how much he misses his mother’s hugs. So he doesn’t pull away and tries to shift his focus a little until he can tune into what’s apparently a conversation now.

“I think if you took a little time to actually sleep this could end up being really useful,” he tells him with a small smile, “I’m actually working on an assignment about the most basic form of artificial intelligence. What do you say? We could put your heads together over lunch tomorrow?”

Tony is too stunned at how _nice_ he is being treated to tell him to go fuck himself so he simply nods. The other boy grins, seemingly happy about their date.

“Great, then tomorrow at Dan’s Diner around noon? My treat.”

“You do know I’m Tony Stark, right?” He frowns then at the weirdly likeable boy who’s clad in a loosely fitting t-shirt that has seen better days and worn shoes that are distinctly lacking any real sole at this point and who’s offering to pay for his meal.

The boy cocks an eyebrow and shrugs. “And I’m James,” he tells him matter-of-factly, “James Rhodes, not Bond.”

“That’s a boring name,” he can’t stop himself from saying, cringing inwardly at his own bluntness, even as he shakes the extended hand. “There’s no cool nickname for James. I’ll call you Rhodey.”

He rolls his eyes but they seem to twinkle at the nickname and his voice is pleasantly teasing when he answers. “Whatever you say, Tones.”

Maybe it’s the sleep-deprivation or the looming of despair at yet another failed project. Maybe it’s because that’s the first casual conversation he’s had in weeks and he’s been longing for another person to talk to. Or maybe it’s because for some inexplicable reason James Rhodes’ company makes him feel safe.

But for the first time since leaving Jarvis and his mother behind he laughs, a deep-belly laugh that shakes his whole body up and that warms his chest with something other than dreed.

They end up working on Dum-E for a little over two weeks and when they’re finally finished he can’t talk but he’s capable of understanding basic voice commands and even answers in _beep-boop_ ’s that seem to convey emotions such as sadness, cheerfulness and anger. (Or maybe they’re imagining that. They have barely slept in days.)

The best thing about getting his robot to work isn’t the fact that they prove Dum-E to be actually useful but the way Rhodey becomes the first person in a long time he feels truly comfortable with.

Rhodey, ever so perceptive, figures out Tony’s bivalent relationship with touches in a matter of days and he’s always careful not to crowd him, backing off when Tony needs it, but there when a gentle touch is all he needs to not fall apart.

After finishing Dum-E his new friend leans forward carefully, holding his gaze as if asking for permission, before he engulfs him in a tight hug. And Tony realizes, as he lets himself rest against the older boy’s chest and relaxes in his friend’s arms that this is one of the most peaceful moments in his life. It gives him hope for the future that, for once, has nothing to do with being the heir of Stark Industries.

And he vows to himself that he won’t ever give up on Dum-E just like Rhodey, for some indiscernible reason, never gave up on him.

* * *

 

“Tony! Stop for a second, please!”

Her raised voice catches him off guard even though it shouldn’t have. He has seen this coming, has prepared for it. Still, when he lowers the spatula his entire body has gone rigid and it’s all he can do to stare at the sizzling pieces of bacon in the pan. The sound feels weirdly out of place in the otherwise quiet room and he can only watch them in crude fascination, certain that in a couple of minutes they’d be burned and he’d have to throw them away but not moving to change the setting on the stove.

It’s like waiting for a train wreck you know is going to happen. It’s an apt description of his life, he figures.

Pepper’s voice is soft again and he feels more than hears her step closer to the kitchen counter he’s hiding behind. He can picture the way her long hair falls over her shoulders in artistic waves and he knows that there is a frown on her forehead, a tiny wrinkle sitting right between her eyebrows. He knows the look in her eyes, the blue eyes that are deeper than the ocean, similarly infinite and so much more beautiful.

“Can you turn around for me?” she asks, gently and probing but not demanding. Leave it to Pepper, the most demanding woman he has ever met, to be the first to let him decide whether to look at her or not.

He’s sure she knows how much he hates being yelled at and he can’t help but feel thankful for her thoughtfulness. It makes it a little easier for him to release the death grip is hand has on the wooden spatula. Olive wood, he thinks absentmindedly, his mother always liked the olive wood spatulas, said they reminded her of home.

His skin is still crawling with barely veiled anxiety but he manages to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

He finds the tiny remains of his shattered masks somewhere deep inside him and it’s enough to make him shake his head.

“Nope. Don’t think I can,” he says, voice light and cheerful and oh-so-fake. “Gotta watch that bacon before I burn down the house again, right? You told me yourself that that’s not a very responsible thing to do and I –“

Suddenly her hand comes into focus, delicate fingers turning down the stove before settling on the countertop. 

Again, her voice is so sweet that it runs down his back like honey. It’s warm and a little sad and it makes his anxiety spike. His heart is thumping so loudly in his chest, he’s sure she hears it too because she sighs very quietly and then her hand is gone from his sight and he thought he would feel better but he doesn’t. He feels worse. As if she’s already gone.

“Pep –“ he all but whispers because he doesn’t know what else to say, how else to explain the fact that he slipped out of bed and left her all on her own after they spent the night together.

Oh god. They spent the night together. They –

When her voice comes back it’s accompanied by a feather-light touch on his wrist. No force, just a question.

“Tony,” she starts and he squeezes his eyes shut because he doesn’t want to hear it, can’t stomach listening to it but also can’t stop himself wanting more of that angle-like voice. “Why won’t you look at me?”

He feels her slender fingers run over his palm and toy with his. Hers are warm and soft where his are cold and calloused. They make a good pair, he thinks, and before he can stop himself he intertwines his fingers with hers and pulls her marginally closer.

“Because,” he whispers, raising their joined hands to his lips to press a kiss to the back of hers, “Because then you’d see me and you’d find that I’m lacking and I’d just rather not do that today.” Or any day, really.

“I’ve already seen you,” she answers and he can hear the smile in her voice, would love to see it on her lips but is too scared to move.

Tony shakes his head but doesn’t release her hand. As if he could make her stay if he just held on tightly enough. “Not like this, you haven’t.”

He’s not sure anyone has ever seen him like this. Hell, he’s not even sure he’s ever been like this – all butterflies-in-stomach and sweaty palms.

It’s love, he thinks. But he’s not sure because he’s never felt it before, doesn’t know how it’s supposed to feel like and if people like him even get to experience something so sacred. If he had to describe it, though, he’d say he’s in love. It’s the scariest thing he has ever felt in his life.

It’s scarier than terrorists in a cave, scarier than falling to his death and scarier, even, than his old man’s raised voice and the smell of whiskey hanging in the air.

“Yes, I have,” she replies easily, in the no-nonsense voice that only Pepper Potts can ever really pull off, and tugs on his hand. “Look at me, please. I promise I won’t run.”

Those were the exact words he has wanted to hear, still he can’t help but question their sincerity. After all, who did stick around after seeing him? Only Rhodey so far. And Pepper but –

He turns around and meets her eyes and she just holds his gaze.

The first thing he notices is the sleepy sand in the corner of her eyes. Dried rheum – a combination of mucin, dust, blood cells and skin cells – entirely gross if it would be anyone else but this is _Pepper_ and he marvels at the sight.

She has never been this raw in his company and he wants to cherish it and tell her how beautiful she looks without make-up on. He wants to tell her about the sun light reflecting in her eyes and how her freckles are like a treasure map. He doesn’t say any of that, though.

They just look at each other.

It’s Pepper who moves first. (Of course she is. That woman is fearless and he’s a mess.)

Very gently she pulls her hand out of his grasp and takes a step closer before he can complain about the loss of warmth. She raises her hands, telegraphing every movement as if she knows that he flinches when someone raises their hand too suddenly (she probably does), and settles them on his cheeks.

He leans into the comfort she’s providing with her thumbs rubbing circles into his skin. He lets himself relish in the warmth her touch is offering and his free hand settles on her hip, just a few centimeters over the hem of his shirt that she’s wearing.

“I’m a mess,” he tells her, eyes closed and she is so close he feels her body vibrate with soft chuckles and her hot breath is tickling his chin.

“I know,” she answers and without having to look he knows that she’s grinning up at him in a way that makes the dimples on her cheek stand out. “But I’ve known that before.”

“I’m going to mess up. I’m not good at – this.” He’s not sure why he is trying to make her turn away but he knows that he has to be open if this can have any chance of working out. God, he wants it to work out so badly.

Her reply is instant and makes his eyes fly open. “Well, then you apologize and work on making it better the next time around. You’ll improve. We both will. It’s what people do in a relationship.”

Again she meets his gaze warmly and without hesitation, a smile curving her lips upwards just the tiniest bit.

It’s in that moment that his love for her overwhelms him. It comes crashing down like a wave of adoration and appreciation and devotion and for a second he’s stumbling until he regains his balance and matches her smile with his.

“I wouldn’t know what people do in a relationship, Ms. Potts.” He grins down at her cheekily and a weight falls off his chest when she starts laughing loudly.

“Believe me, I know,” she smirks and leans up to press a lingering kiss to his lips, “But I think I’m up to the challenge, Mr. Stark.”

Her hands are still resting on his face and it feels like they have always been there, as if this is supposed to be. As if they were meant to be.

It takes them a lot of effort and ups and downs but Pepper’s touch slowly glues all his broken pieces back together, blowing kisses to the faint scars that remain.

 

* * *

 

When he hears the blood rushing in his ears and feels his heart beat violently in his chest out of nowhere, he stops mid-movement. Screwdriver in hand with his body bent over the wiring of the suit he’s working on he tries to take a deep breath just to see if he can.

It works surprisingly well but the sensation of his body shaking with every beat of his heart - like it’s a wrecking ball not a pump - is still there and while it’s nothing entirely new he really doesn’t enjoy the feeling of his ribcage threatening to tear open with every _thump_ of the vital organ.

Quietly he sets down the tool and moves his right hand to rest over his sternum, right above the scar where his arc reactor used to sit. The feeling of skin on skin and the light pressure he puts on his thorax help ground him only marginally and his stupid heartrate is hell bent on accelerating no matter how evenly he breathes which is just annoying.

His left hand comes up, fingers routinely grabbing his radial pulse point as he tries to will his heart to slow down. The moves have become instinctually over the years. Having had shrapnel mere millimeters from one of the few things he quite literally can’t live without has made him hyperaware of everything that might be going wonky in his chest.

It’s that hyper-fixation that makes even the smallest palpitation seem like a coronary, complete with mortal agony and phantom pain spreading into his left arm until his pinky starts cramping.  

_Three counts in, five counts out._

He coaches himself to breathe evenly. The chances of this actually being a heart attack are slim to none. His doctor had him checked out just three days ago. As the doc would say: his fear is understandable but unnecessary. It’s fine. Just a random spike of anxiety that doesn’t mean anything.

_Three in. Five out._

_One, Two, Three._

_One, Two, Three, Four, Five._

_Again._

“Mister Stark? Are you okay?”                          

“Huh?” he opens his eyes all at once to see Peter standing next to his work station, a tube of something in his hand, worrying at his bottom lip as he watches Tony cling to his own chest.

Upon seeing the big brown eyes that peep out under the messy shock of curls he feels warmth spread through his chest like a wildfire. It’s almost unpleasantly fast but it leaves a field of peace in its wake which is doing more in calming his racing heart than any breathing exercise he’s tried so far. There’s something undeniably powerful about this kid’s presence to ground him to reality.

“Yeah,” he says and when the words leave his mouth they’re barely a lie anymore but they have a pact where they don’t lie at all, so he tags on, “Just my heart running riot for no apparent reason. Don’t worry about it. What were you working on? Is that Chemistry project going well? Do you need help?”

As has become the norm in moments like these, Peter completely ignores his attempts to change the topic and cocks his head to the side in a mix of worry, amusement and plain adoration as he gingerly takes a seat on the swivel chair next to his mentor.

God. His love for this kid is making his heart clench painfully. He’s never really experienced this kind of unconditional love before and some days it feels like his body hasn’t been made with emotions like that in mind. They’re burning too hot when he’s freezing, leaving him reeling and unsure of where to turn.

“Did you take your meds?” He turns on the chair until his left thigh is resting against Tony’s right knee and the petite touch is incredibly welcome, almost disturbingly calming.

He makes a face because he doesn’t like talking about his mental health and everything that’s wrong with it but he relents with a soft sigh and a shake of his head. “Nope. Doc said we could taper off them as long as I keep seeing her and nothing new comes up. But it’s fine, Pete. I promise. Just not all that comfortable, that’s it.”

When Peter only pouts but doesn’t argue any further, he eases his hands down from his own chest and rests them on the kid’s shoulders instead, preening inwardly when the boy meets his gaze openly without further prodding.

“I’m not going to die in the next couple hours. I promise.”

The teenager relaxes then, huffing and leaning forward to rest his forehead on his mentor’s shoulder and like clockwork calloused fingers find the tense spots on his neck and start kneading it gently. “I just – worry. I’m sorry.”

“Tell you what,” Tony grins, standing up and pulling the kid with him, “Let’s call it a day down here and catch a movie until Pep gets home for dinner, whataya say?”

“Can we just listen to music?”

“Sure we can, bud.”

They end up listening to one of the few recorded pieces of Guido Agosti, an Italian pianist that taught his mom to play when she was young and it brings him back to a time when touch was not yet forbidden. A time when Maria Stark would sing him to sleep and he stayed up well past his bed-time only to listen to her play.

Sometimes they would listen to recordings together, from her priced possession of vinyl and those are some of the few moments of his childhood that he still revisits frequently and joyfully albeit with a heavy heart.

It’s not that all that different now.

Peter’s ear is resting right above his heart, his breathing coming out in soft even puffs of warm air against Tony’s collarbone. He’s curled up into him, fitting into Tony’s embrace like he was meant to end up here. Like this has been life’s grand goal all along and if that’s true then Tony can’t even be mad at everything that’s happened so far.

His fingers run through the mess of curls ever so gently, working on the numerous knots with a proficiency that has come with hours and hours of practice.

The kid’s already starting to nod off to the quiet calming sounds of his mother’s childhood hero and he pulls him impossibly closer, index and middle finger coming to rest over the soft thump of his temporal pulse point.

 

Peter Parker came into his life when he was lost, only held together by Rhodey and Pepper but always dangerously close to falling apart. He thought there was no more room in his heart. That there was no way someone could get past the barriers he’s built over the years and, honestly, he didn’t think there was any need to.

Somehow, and without meaning to, Peter has barreled past all of them and quietly but firmly made room between all the scars and the betrayal and the fear. He settled down between all the pieces, build himself a shelter and, simultaneously, filled an aching hole in Tony’s chest that he hadn’t even realized was there.

Tony leans over to pull a blanket on top of both of them, smiling into Peter’s hair when he nestles closer and lets out a soft snore. Before he drifts off to sleep, heart beating strong and steady and normally in his chest, he presses a kiss to his temple.

“I love you, Petey. Never change. Not like I did.”


End file.
